


Murders of Quiet, Domestic Interest

by lovesrogue36



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Assassination Attempt(s), Bedroom Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, POV Female Character, POV First Person, Post-Finale, Post-Series, Texas, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-14
Updated: 2014-07-21
Packaged: 2018-02-08 21:12:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1956318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovesrogue36/pseuds/lovesrogue36
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miles and Rachel try to "give it a shot" in Austin, fighting Patriots and being respectable, but they're missing a key ingredient in their relationship: Bass. Now it's just a matter of who realizes it first and whether or not Bass and Rachel can learn to share.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Revolution nor am I associated with any of the cast or crew.
> 
> Title is from Agatha Christie: "I specialize in murders of quiet, domestic interest."
> 
> Hello lovely fandom! It's been almost two months since I posted anything thanks to a wildly busy summer but I'm jumping back in with some new RM2. This is a new time period for me with these three so it's a bit of an experiment - as always, love to hear what everyone thinks!

“I am not just going to stand by and watch _General Monroe_ take over the world again!” I’m screeching, I can tell, but what does it matter? All Bass hears when I talk is screeching anyway; he always thought I was just Miles’ inconvenient harpie.

“Look, I don’t want the Republic back!” He has one hand braced on my desk, the other waving around over a row of beakers I’ve just washed.

I whisk the tray out from under his careless flail, setting the beakers far out of his reach. “Really, now? Because a few months ago you were singing a very different tune.” It’s low, perhaps, bringing that up. But I’m never really going to be over the ‘Connor thing’, the fact that I helped find his lousy excuse for a son, only to have the little bastard stab us in the back.

_Not when he took mine from me._

I wince, the thought practically just kneejerk at this point. I’ve said it out loud so many thousands of times: _you killed my son. You took Danny from me._ I’ve nearly convinced myself to believe it.

“-and what about you, huh? Am I supposed to believe you and Miles wouldn’t grab a little power for yourselves if the opportunity presented itself? How do we know you aren’t in here cooking up something to do just that? Everybody knows it chafes Miles to be working for Texas,” Bass gestures around the tent I’ve converted into a lab, mostly so I can determine what little experiments Horn and his team were busy concocting, partly so I have someplace to go when Miles doesn’t say anything for thirty-six straight hours.

“None of us is _working_ for Texas, first of all. Working with, perhaps. Second of all, no, Bass, we wouldn’t ‘grab a little power for ourselves.’ I’m not a power-hungry narcissist like yourself.”

“Bullshit. If you weren’t so damn self-righteous, I’d have wanted you on my advising staff in Philly. Admit it, Rachel, you’re ruthless at heart.” Bass takes a step closer to me and I straighten my shoulders instinctively, lifting my chin.

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” There’s a scalpel in my hand, I’m just now realizing. So often, sharp objects just seem to end up in my hands. I twist it around between my fingers, metal catching a shaft of sunlight as it streams into the tent.

“Hey, you’re a homicidal bitch but nobody ever said I don’t respect you.” His fingers close around my wrist, oddly gentle. He must have noticed the scalpel long before I did. Rolling my hand and casually holding his stare, I press the sharp tip to his ulnar artery.

He flinches.

I smirk.

The knowledge that I still scare him, just a little, is satisfying. The pain in my wrist when he twists the scalpel away from me is less so, though it fades quickly and, to be honest, it’s nothing compared to what his lapdogs used to inflict on me.

“What are you gonna do, stab me?” Bass sounds almost bored but I think he might be trying for ironic since we both know that, yeah, I would.

He flicks the small blade to the dirt and crowds me back against the desk, his grip tight on my wrist, his breath warm on my cheek. It’s overly intimate of him, and we both know that’s the point.

“What are you gonna do, _kiss_ me?” I shoot back. His eyes drop to my lips for just a moment but it works: he releases my arm and steps back a fraction of an inch. Bass doesn’t like to be called out on his underhanded plays, not unless he’s ready to own them.

“I’m sorry, about that,” Bass mutters, glancing at his hands. It’s easier to see him flush, now that he’s shaved off the perpetual shadow on his face. It didn’t suit the polished General Monroe, after all.

I scoff, staying right where I am, hands behind me on the desk, because I know this isn’t over. “That’s what you choose to apologize for? A childish kiss?”

He shrugs. “Take it or leave it. I _am_ sorry.”

“If you want to apologize for something, apologize for being my jailer or for killing my husband or my son or for forcing my daughter to become _you_ or, I don’t know, Bass, for the _torture_!”

“You do realize that Miles is mostly responsible for most of those things, right? Or are you just really that delusional?”

The flat of my hand makes contact with his cheek almost before I realize what I’m doing. Then again, slapping Bass is just muscle memory at this point.

He hisses through his teeth, grabbing me. The desk rattles and I go tense, though I’m not sure he’d actually hurt me now, not with Miles watching everything he does. _Bass is unpredictable but this isn’t Philadelphia._ Even then he only ever raised a hand to me himself when I tried to hurt him first.

“Yeah sure, go ahead, blame me for everything, Rach. Just rewrite history so your precious Miles never lifted a finger-”

“ _Hey_!” Miles barrels into the tent, flinging Bass back like the proverbial rag doll. I yelp at the shock of being suddenly released, Miles planting himself in front of me so I can just barely see over his shoulder. It’s almost an odd sensation, him leaping in front of me for once, instead of in front of Bass. When Bass first came to Texas, _(when Charlie first brought him to Texas),_ Miles was constantly his human shield, it seemed.

I’m more preoccupied by wondering how much he overheard though. _Does he know how much is true? Does he know how much I pretend didn’t happen, how much I do exactly what Bass said: mentally rewrite our history, so we never have to confront it?_

Bass glowers, narrowly avoiding a run-in with a shelf of jars filled with chemicals. (Almost a shame it didn’t just fall on him; if I can’t kill Bass, I could live with him horribly disfigured.) “Back off, man, we were just talking.”

“The _hell_ you were!” Miles grabs him by the collar of his shiny new Texas uniform and slams him into the center post of my tent so the canvas sways dangerously around us. “You keep your hands off her, you hear me, Bass? In fact, I see you loitering around in here again, you’ll be walking bow-legged like these fucking Rangers, with your sword shoved so far up-”

“Miles.” I tug on his arm, trying not to see dilated blue eyes or the way Miles adjusts his grip, thumb scraping the sweat-slicked skin of Bass’ throat. “ _Miles_.” His tongue darts out over his lips and he glances at me, jaw clenched. “Let him go,” I murmur, holding his stare until he releases Bass without looking at him, raising his hands.

These days the only time they converse is in meetings, the only time they get within three feet of each other is to fight. Then again, they find a lot of reasons to fight, up close, swapping sweat. Sometimes I think they’re almost as reluctant just to let go as they are to refrain from kicking each other’s asses. On second thought, perhaps their subtext is more concerning than the apparent distance that’s grown between them.

Bass straightens and tugs his uniform flat again, rubbing a hand over his clean-shaven jaw. “And you think _I’m_ rabid,” he directs to me over Miles’ shoulder. “You’re fooling yourself, playing house.”

Miles glares at him and grunts as he turns toward me, a deep crease between his eyes. “You all right?” he asks, one of those big, comforting hands wrapping around my arm.

I glance away, squint at the dirt. Suddenly, I don’t really want to talk about it. When Bass and I argue, it’s personal. Nobody knows how to cut me like he does and I’m the same for him. “I’m fine. Just an argument.”

“That we weren’t really finished with,” Bass snaps from behind him. Miles looks utterly put out, like he thought ignoring Bass would really make him go away. He could choose to physically remove him but although some part of Miles relishes beating Bass down, we all know he can’t bring himself to really hurt him. That much he’s proven over and over again.

“ _Leave_ , Bass,” Miles growls, dragging his knuckles down my cheek and elbowing into my space, those dark eyes hooded. He hesitates halfway though, apparently weighed down by Bass’ shameless stare a few feet behind him.

The corners of my lips tip up in a humorless smile and I press my hands to his cheeks. “It’s _fine_ ,” I whisper, leaning in to brush a warm, dry kiss over his mouth. It’s different, being within kissing distance of Miles than of Bass. I can easier fool myself into complacency with Miles. “I’m fine.”

Resting his forehead on mine, Miles seems to reassure himself for the thousandth time since Willoughby that I’m okay, that I’m his (if only his to keep in a tidy little box that fits his twenty-year-old idea of me. No, that’s not fair. Twenty years ago, he regularly wanted to tear my clothes off.) Bass clenches and unclenches his fists and I see a flash of the man I lived with for so many years, the erratic man he became after he lost Miles. He narrows his eyes at me for a moment and tucks his unhinged (jealous?) Mr. Hyde back behind sparkling blue eyes and a hard-to-beat smile and an even harder-to-beat battle plan, before turning on his heel and exiting the tent, little puffs of dust rising at each footfall.

I put him forcefully out of my mind, my lips parting eager under Miles’ and my fingers knitting in the soft, worn cotton of his shirt. It’s been over a month since Miles touched me like this, since he gave me more than a goodnight kiss or a peck goodbye. You wouldn’t think a few weeks would make a dent in my armor, not after twenty years, but there’s a difference between remembering what it was like to touch someone you think you’ll never see again and lying next to them, inches apart, together but _not_ touching.

His tongue traces my bottom lip, the dull points of my teeth, up onto the roof of my mouth. Callouses rough against my cheeks, he brushes a few stray strands of hair out of his way, pressing greedy kisses down my jaw. There’s a soft moan that I think might be me, and I’m melting, sweat dripping down my back from the August Texan sun and lips swollen and pink from Miles.

He unbuttons my top without looking and I flush a bit, though admittedly I’m more worried about the stacks of notes I don’t want to accidentally scatter than I am about someone catching us. Though I suppose in a way, getting caught is redundant: someone (Bass) already knows what we’re doing in here. I get a little thrill at the thought of him out there, imagining us in here. He gets so unspeakably jealous when Miles gives me all his attention, even just for brief stolen moments like this.

“Really?” I breathe, “Here?”

“Got a problem with that?” Miles strips the shirt off my shoulders so it catches on my elbows, dragging my bra down with his thick fingers and sucking a nipple into his mouth.

I gasp, lifting myself up onto the edge of the desk and drawing him in closer, my boots hooked behind his knees so he stumbles into me. Miles seems to paint every inch of skin between my jaw and my breasts, his mouth as frantic and determined as the rest of him. I’m not about to bother with getting his shirt off, not when I can feel how hard he already is against my thigh, even through our combined layers of denim.

His buckle gives way under my blind attempts, finally, and I wrench the belt free, feeling the strangest tingle of relief and mounting anticipation. Miles groans just at the brush of my fingertips over cotton, dropping his head abruptly to my shoulder, like he’s been waiting for this forever, like he’s been lying beside me each night, squashing the need to touch me just as I’ve done.

_Son of a bitch, Miles, make up your mind. I thought this was supposed to be us ‘giving it a shot’, not you burying our chances in a whiskey bottle again._

He jams a hand under me, lifting me up enough that I can scramble out of my own jeans. Seems unproductive to interrupt all this to unlace my boots so instead I just push my pants down over my knees. He’ll figure it out.

Miles barely seems to notice the denim obstacle as he yanks me to the edge of the desk, wrinkling papers in our wake, and cupping a hand on my cheek over the thick blond curls loose there. He sucks my bottom lip in between his, letting me pull his cock out, gently, and guide him inside me. It’s shallow, partly because neither of us is really undressed, but I slam my eyes shut anyway, fists knotted in his shirt.

His belt buckle jangles against his thigh with each thrust and I’m never going to come like this but, god, does it feel good anyway. Miles is panting and groaning against my temple, his sword bouncing along beside my knee because we didn’t bother to unstrap it. He slips out a few times so I start keeping a hand at the base of his cock, threading him back inside me, slick and humid, all our heat trapped between us.

He’s close, forehead pressed to mine, a hand clamped at the back of my neck. “Rach,” he gasps, “Rachel, look at me.” His voice is reedy, strained, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say it was a beg.

It takes everything I have to drag my concentration from the feel of him inside me to opening my eyes, to looking at him. But I do, I squint up at Miles and he stifles a moan, like looking in my eyes is just what he needed. (That sounds absurdly sentimental but it also sounds absurdly like Miles.)

“I lo-” He chokes, turning pink, and I reach up with a shaky hand to run my fingers through his hair. “Love the- colorofyoureyes,” he mumbles, and I’d laugh or smile but my eyes are stinging so instead I just guide him out of me and wrap my small fingers around his cock. (It’s easier, than laughing or smiling.)

Miles groans, leaning all his weight on the desk on either side of me, and he comes quickly: just a few harsh twists and a swipe of my thumb over his tip. Slumping on my shoulder, he fumbles blindly with one hand, hooks two, three, fingers up inside me and digs his thumb into my clit. His teeth are just a suggestion at my pulse point, and I wind my arms around his neck, clinging.

I clamp down on his fingers, stifling a cry with my lip between my teeth and dripping on his palm. My vision’s foggy for a moment and then I’m falling back onto my elbows and bumping the tray of beakers I’d carefully kept out of Bass’ reach earlier. The whole thing crashes to the dirt floor with a clang and then there’s glass shards _everywhere_.

Squeezing my eyes shut, Miles’ fingers still inside me, I breathe a quiet, exasperated, “ _Fuck_.”

Miles puffs a laugh, glancing up at me. “You good?”

“Yes,” I whine, at least as annoyed by the sudden emptiness as he draws his hand back as I am by the broken glass.

He leans in to kiss me, wiping his hand on his jeans and running fingers through my hair in a vain attempt to comb it. “I’ll get someone in here to clean this up,” he murmurs against my lips before straightening, hiking his pants up.

I sigh, lifting myself off the desk to fix my own clothes. He looks particularly disappointed when I start to button my shirt up again, and I nearly smile. _Smile. Me and Miles, smiling. Is that physically possible, I wonder?_

And then he ruins it, as is his way. “Does he come around here a lot?”

I turn my back on him, reaching for a broom. I don’t really want anyone traipsing through my lab; I can clean it up myself, thank you. “Don’t worry about it. Just Bass… being Bass.”

He licks his lips, inspecting the smear of come on his shirt where I had clung to him and opting just to turn it inside out for now. (I hope he doesn’t plan to walk around like that all day but you never know with Miles.) “Fine. I don’t really want to talk about him either.” Miles yanks his now-inside-out shirt back on and pecks my cheek. “Got a strategy meeting tonight. Don’t wait up.”

I know, objectively, that he doesn’t mean to be dismissive and that he simply prefers to pretend Bass and I don’t exist on the same plane, so that he doesn’t have to deal with us both at once. But it still stings. I glare at the dirt: that’s something I’ll never get used to, sweeping dirt. Talk about a useless activity.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**A Few Days Later**

The place could be a hellhole; I guess I should just be glad Bass has standards when it comes to his brothels. He _was_ accustomed to the very best of escorts in Philadelphia, after all. Even if I couldn’t have guessed his company back then was paid, I could always smell the expensive salvaged perfume from all the way down the hall. Chanel for the redhead, Jo Malone for the blonde.

The metal tags jangle in my hand as I pound on the door of room 211 before barging in without waiting for an answer. Bass is sprawled on the bed with a nude girl (brunette this time) straddling him, obscene, if familiar, moans bucking out of him.

“Can you give us a minute?” I demand, fist planted on my hip, and she shoots me a lazy glance over her shoulder before arching an eyebrow down at him, overworked hands brushing his chest in question.

Bass cups a hand at her bare ass and glares at me, though his eyes are glazed over with arousal. “Fuck off, Rachel.”

“Fat chance. Need to talk you.”

He sighs heavily through his nose, squeezing her thighs before motioning her off. “S’fine. Just go, Aubrey, we’re square.”

The girl shrugs, climbing off him so his cock springs free, all pink and unashamed. Draping a silky robe over her shoulders, she grabs the cash off the nightstand and brushes past me. He sits up on his elbows, legs falling open, but I don’t bother blushing: Bass doesn’t have anything I haven’t seen. And in our world, what’s the point of embarrassment anyway?

“Why’re you here?” he demands, sounding more honestly strained and tired than I’m used to from him. Like this, I can see the purple and yellow bruises on his torso from that run-in last week with Truman. His dusty uniform is draped over the end of the bed, and his curls are limp, like even they’re exhausted somehow. Miles and the Rangers _have_ been running themselves ragged these past few months, rounding up the Patriots. I guess Bass has actually been helpful in that.

“I found these,” is all I say, thrusting the dog tags out towards him. “In Miles’ things.”

“So now in addition to being a nag, you’re also a snoop.” He sits up though, reaches out to take them. I’m not sure what that is on his face when he recognizes his own name stamped out on the scarred, silver metal. Surprise? Affection?

“I can’t believe he still has these,” Bass murmurs, threading the necklace through his long fingers.

“Still? When did he get them? Why does Miles have your dog tags?” I wonder if I sound as panicky as I feel. My chest is tight and each breath feels shallow, raw. I’m not sure why.

(That’s a lie.)

“Because I have his.” Bass squints up at me with that wide-eyed look that means he’s being as honest as he currently believes himself capable. “Had ‘em since Parris Island.”

“What is that, some kind of macho Marine marriage contract?” I snap, gnawing on my bottom lip. _Miles and Bass exchanged their dog tags._ It’s almost adorable. Or, at least, it would be if it didn’t explain so goddamn much. “Why?”

Bass smiles slightly, standing up off the bed, the tags still wrapped around his hand (and still the only thing he’s wearing.) “Because we were all we had. You think you know things, Rachel, but those first few years after the Blackout… Don’t presume you know me, or Miles.”

“Yeah, right, I’ve heard this all before. You think you _know_ Miles, better than I ever will.” I huff, running my fingers through my hair. So they were a thing. Miles has never quite gotten over him; it’s why he’s been so distant these past few months, even as he swears he wants to make it work with me. It explains so much. _It explains everything._ Some part of me wants to put my fingers in my ears and not listen to the truth. Another part wants to shoot him where he stands and hide Miles away inside of me, where Bass can’t get to him anymore. “Maybe you do. Maybe I never really knew him to begin with.”

“Look, I don’t know why he’s still got ‘em. The man tried to kill me but apparently he’s too sentimental to part with my crap.” He moves across to the small credenza by the window and lays the tags there to wash his hands in the basin. “What do you care anyway?”

How am I supposed to answer that? When I found dog tags in Miles’ drawer this evening, (while putting away the laundry, not snooping, thank you), I thought they were his. I’ve always been a little wary about his time in the service, not the least of which because of how much more exponentially damaged he was every time he came home from a tour. But I felt a twinge of pride when I found the tags, at least in the fact that he could hang onto something that long, that he could care about something. And then I realized my mistake.

SEBASTIAN MONROE, stamped out in glaring capitals.

Yeah, Miles can hang onto something for this long, just one thing: Bass.

“I’m just… I’m just so rattled all the time. It’s bad enough, I have to be worried about Charlie and my dad and wondering what’s happening in Willoughby. Now I’m apparently worried about whether or not the man I love is actually in love with the man who held me prisoner for eight years.” I’ve never said it out loud, but I catch his eye as the words leave my mouth and I know it’s true. We’re both terrified of having to share him. We’re pathetic. And all over a man who’s good at nothing but drinking and killing and fucking and who can’t tell either of us he loves us, even if we were to beg for a straight answer.

But Bass doesn’t say any of what I expect him to. He doesn’t tell me I’m bad for Miles or that I’m a hypocrite or that I’m rewriting history. He just pours himself a drink and says, “You’re not jealous, Rachel. You’re into it.”

That, at least, yanks me out of my endless rambling trains of thought. “ _Excuse_ me?”

“You telling me you’ve never imagined it? Me and Miles?” Bass smirks, sliding his hand onto my waist and crowding me with him into the narrow space between the bed and the wall. “Never pictured me on my knees for him, that big, thick cock of his in my mouth? Never gotten off to the idea of him on all fours with me fucking into him from behind?”

I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry, because, yes, of course I’ve thought about it. I’ve thought about it since the day I met the two of them, at that stupid party, when I thought they were a couple until Bass left with the pretty blonde bartender. The abrupt confrontation of this thing nobody ever talks about, the Bass-and-Miles thing, it’s startling. But not surprising.

“Is that an admission?” I ask. His hands are warm and heavy through my shirt, and I’m a little impressed with myself that I manage to keep my voice steady.

“Of what?” he laughs, practically pouring the whiskey down his throat. “If you want to know if Miles and I have really had sex, not just in your fantasies, all you gotta do is ask. Don’t play games.”

“Oh, but you love the games. You always did.” I press my lips together in thought, lifting the glass out of his hand and draining it. “Besides, you’ve got it all wrong. Not just the two of you. Imagine _Miles_ in between _us_.” Flicking a finger back and forth between us, I arch an eyebrow at him.

Something sad like a smirk drifts across his face. “You think I’d share him with you?”

“Probably not. You’re a jackass like that. But we both know you would if he told you to. You’ve played your hand, Bass; I know full well you’ll bend over for him any day.”

Bass glances down at me, surveying the curve of my collarbone and the tips of my boots and, no doubt, the suddenly hard jut of my nipples beneath thin, blue cotton. “You’re one to talk. He walks into a room, and you forget all about everything he ever did to you. To your family.”

“Do you really want to start a pissing contest as to who’s more responsible for ruining my life?” I snatch the dog tags off the credenza and slam his glass down. “He may not have exactly chosen me outright,” I jangle the tags to make my point, “but that seems to be what he wants us to think. Maybe you and I have to make the real choice for him.”

I duck under his arm and make my escape before he can lure me back in with more arguing and more innuendo, leaving him to stand there, bare-ass naked with an empty glass of whiskey and a drab uniform to his name. I curse myself all the way home, Bass’ dog tags wrapped tight around my fist, unable to scrub away the images he planted in my head so deliberately.

The brothel is just an old apartment building with a bar on street level but most of the patrons downstairs ignore me entirely as I weave around the haphazard tables and card games. That’s fine with me because I’m ignoring them too, absorbed in the roundabout confirmation that’s just been dropped in my lap. I always suspected. Hell, maybe I always knew.

Austin isn’t exactly quiet and it's getting dark so I walk a little faster, heading for the equivalent of army housing, for the little one bedroom I share with Miles. Bass calls it “playing house,” and he’s right. We’re just pretending, biding our time until this silly little game blows up in our faces.

What hurts isn’t that Miles would hang onto something so personal and intimate from the days when he and Bass were… everything, apparently, to each other. What hurts is that he would pretend as though he can’t stand the sight of the other man, as though what Bass did to me makes him sick to his stomach, and yet still pine over him. Still stash trinkets, in _our_ house, all the while playing happy families.

It hurts, but I suppose I get it. I can’t presume to know what goes on in Miles’ head but I can say with absolute certainty that he hates himself. Probably has for longer than I’ve known him. Maybe… maybe this thing with Bass, maybe it’s one of the reasons why.

To be honest, that realization only makes me hurt for him more.

I turn a corner, lifting the wire fence that surrounds our “base.” If one of the security patrol catches me, I’ll get a stern Texas bawl-out but I don’t want to see anyone right now. There’s a lantern burning in the upstairs window and my shoulders slump; I was hoping Miles wouldn’t be home yet. Then I’d be able to put this off for longer. Be able to continue pretending, at least for the duration of a glass of something strong and bitter.

I walk up the front steps, the middle one creaking loudly under my foot, and fish my keys out. These crackerjack little houses were built after the Blackout, ( _‘cause Texas takes care of their boys that way_ , or so I was informed by the officer who helped us move in), so I don’t even get to glare at a burned out bulb hanging unhelpfully over my head. _Burned out is a misnomer,_ I'm thinking as I push the door in and step inside, _Most of the filaments are probably still in good working order._

"Rach? That you?" Miles calls down the hall and I cringe at the sound of his voice but it's the creak behind me that makes me freeze. It could be Bass. It could be Sheila from down the street; she's been trying to get me to join her army wife quilt club or- something- for weeks. But somehow I don't think so.

I reach out blindly with my free hand to the little table by the front door, where Miles keeps a pile of junk, whatever’s in his pockets it seems, and where I _know_ there’s a decent-sized pocket knife. The door slams back into the wall and whoever it is grabs me, my keys clattering to the floor. I twist in his hands, flicking the pocket knife half-open and jamming it awkwardly into his thigh, barely deep enough to cut through his jeans but it distracts him long enough I can scramble out of his grip.

The bedroom door bangs open and Miles comes tearing into the room, lantern swinging from one hand, and his sword in the other. He’s shouting my name and I’m jamming my elbow into this guy’s face on the floor, just before he’s yanked up off me. It all happens so fast but by the time I manage to get to my feet, my attacker is standing half-slumped with Bass’ arms looped through his, immobilizing him. The man’s about six foot, wild eyes and a shock of reddish hair that's sticking up in all directions.

We don’t bother with pleasantries, though I am wondering where in the hell Bass came from; Miles just steps around me and presses his blade to the guy’s throat. “Who are you?” he demands, in that sharp, jagged voice that makes almost any prisoner quake. “What do you want?”

The man spits at Miles and he presses harder on his sword, drawing a fine line of blood. “ _What do you want?_ ”

He glares at me over Miles’ shoulder, struggling uselessly. Bass grunts but holds him in place. “Saw her at the whorehouse. Knew she’d lead me straight to you, you son of a bitch.”

“To me?” Miles laughs, sharing a humorless grin with Bass. “There’ve got to be easier ways to kill me if you really wanted to.”

The guy shrugs like Miles Matheson doesn’t have a sword to his throat. “Saw an opportunity.”

“Why?” Bass demands gruffly, yanking on the back of his shirt so he has to twist at an angle that must be horribly uncomfortable. “What did Miles ever do to you?”

“He’s a traitor! You all are! I heard you used to be Marines and then you turn around and shoot the commander-in- _chief!_ ”

A Patriot bastard, another one. They’re vermin and they keep popping up everywhere we turn. Yeah, Miles killed Davis, a couple weeks ago. It was the right thing. I’m trying to keep my violent extremes under control: there are some people you can’t help, and some people you can’t destroy. The trick is in knowing which is which.

I realize the pocket knife isn’t on the floor seconds too late as the dirtbag whips it out of his sleeve and tries to jam into Bass’ hand. _Yeah, if he were that easy to take down, don’t you think somebody would have done it by now? Namely, me?_

Bass gets in a solid punch to his jaw, and Miles stumbles back, trying to pass me the lantern, but I swipe his sword instead. These delusional fascist assholes can’t just march into my house and expect to get away with it. (It's almost ironic, given who I do allow in my house.)

I skewer him on Miles’ sword, blood splattering over my right side just before he crumples to the hardwood floor in our quaint little living room.

I might not have my violent extremes as under control as I like to think.


	3. Chapter 3

The Patriot slumps to the floor, Miles’ sword sliding out of my fist with a sickening whisper of metal on blood. There’s several long moments of heavy breathing as we all get our bearings but I can tell as soon as Miles recovers because he whirls on me, lantern swinging from one hand. “What the hell? And you!” He waves the lantern vaguely in Bass’ direction. “Where did you come from?”

“From the whorehouse.” Bass dusts his hands off on his pants. “Saw this guy following Rachel from the window upstairs so I followed them both back here. Barely had time to get my clothes on.”

Miles arches an eyebrow at me in turn, as if to say: _and what’s your excuse, Ms. Matheson?_

I swallow hard, wishing I had the willpower or desire to break his stare. "I went to see Bass. About these." I hold up the dog tags still wrapped around my fist, blood splattered on the metal and on my skin. Bass is frozen behind me. I suppose he wants to see Miles’ reaction as much as I really don’t.

Miles reaches out reluctantly and I intend to let the tags fall into his hand but they’re too tightly tangled around my fingers. It doesn’t matter: he goes white even without having to read the name stamped there. “R-Rach. That isn’t- I mean-” His eyes dart up to Bass’ face and they have one of those silent little conversations where Miles blames Bass for everything and Bass just takes it. I used to think he was bottling those times up, saving them for a day when he could finally get his revenge on Miles for abandoning him, but we all know he’s let those opportunities slide too many times to be a coincidence. Even to be cowardice.

“I’m not mad,” I murmur. I’m a little surprised to find that I’m really not. None of this is a shock to discover, though my hands are definitely clammy and I’m feeling a little lightheaded, like my body’s in shock even if my mind isn’t. It’s an all too familiar feeling, my head and my body not communicating. “I get it now.”

“You get what?” Miles asks slowly. He’s looking at me the way he always used to in Willoughby, when I was still on suicide watch and he and Dad were on eggshells around me.

"You're a good man, Miles.” He and Bass both scoff and I press my lips together insistently. “I'm serious. The man who was there for Charlie when nobody else could be, he’s a good man, and the guy who's tried to keep the world from collapsing in on itself even when the rest of are doing our damnedest to-" I glance over at Bass and swallow that thought, not wanting to compare the two of us out loud.

"But I’m ashamed to admit that’s not the man I fell in love with. Unfortunately for me, Bass already had the part of you I did fall for.” Miles tries to protest, but I slide my hand onto his stubbled cheek, trace his bottom lip with my thumb, and make him look me in the eye. “It’s okay. I love you, but you are never going to be mine. And I get that now.”

“Rachel, come on, please.” He grabs my hand, rattling the dog tags to make a point, but his eyes still shoot over to Bass, like he’s not sure what he can even say about them. “These, they’re…”

“It’s _okay_.” My eyes are watery, his face swimming in front of me even as I draw a finger over the familiar lines around his mouth and eyes. “I think… I’m gonna leave for Willoughby in the morning. Go see my dad, and Charlie.”

Panic crosses his dark eyes and he squeezes my shoulders tighter. “No, please, stay- we’ll talk about it-”

“Look, I don’t expect you to ever get things figured out. But, I need to.” I press up onto my toes and brush a kiss over his lips before stepping around him. The house is quiet behind me, the two of them locked in a silent argument with a dead body between them.

I’m not sure if they come to some kind of wordless agreement or if Bass just moves before Miles can argue but he crosses the room in a few long strides and ducks in front of me, his hands braced on either side of the hallway.

“No. You don’t get to do that.”

I lift an eyebrow, folding my arms over my chest. “Get out of my way, Bass.” I honestly don’t even care to argue with him at this point. He’s won; can’t he at least take it graciously?

Miles audibly sighs, coming up behind me to wrap his arms over mine and bury his face in my shoulder. He tussles my hair with his cheek, drawing in a deep breath. Strawberries, that’s what he always says I smell like. It’s all in his head. I don’t remember the last time I had a strawberry.

“Please don’t go,” he pleads and some twisted little part of me almost laughs because how many times have I begged him not to leave me?

He’s said some cruel things to shoot me down, though in Miles’ head, he’s always had my best interests in heart. Saving me from himself. _I don’t love you. Bad things happen when we’re together._

“I’m not saying you don’t love me.” _I don’t believe we’re only capable of loving one person at a time._ “But you can’t love the both of us, specifically. There’s too much venom here. We’d tear each other apart.” There are tears in my voice and I press my lips together, trying to blink them back.

Miles squeezes me tighter, voice gruff against my ear, like it’s a physical struggle to spill so many words at once. “You think I don’t know what this is all about? I have hurt you both, so much; you should hate me. I hate me but you don’t, apparently, for some reason. But you do hate each other. And it kills me.”

I lose control of one tear, feel it drip down my cheek, because he’s never as emotionally distant or clueless as I think he is. He just never _tells_ me anything. Judging by the look on Bass’ face, at least he never tells him anything either.

He inches closer to us, one hand dropping to cover my wrist, the dog tags jangling quietly. His fingers curl in mine, thumb brushing the soft cotton of Miles’ sleeve, arms still wrapped around me like if he just holds on tight enough, I won’t leave. I tip my chin down, squeezing my eyes shut, but Bass pays me no attention, just stares at Miles over my shoulder.

“Why do you still have these?” he asks finally, almost a whisper.

Miles shuffles his feet, tries to look away, but Bass claps a hand on his cheek, almost a slap. “You tried to kill me. You walked away from everything we had. But you kept my _dog tags?_ Why?”

“Never wanted to hurt you, Bass.” He swallows hard, starting to pull away a fraction but I find, abruptly, that I don’t want to lose the weight of him around me. I grab his arm and he stays; my thanks is silent.

“You got a funny way of showing it.”

“Needed something to remember. You.” Miles heaves a sigh, shoulders slumping in defeat before he mumbles it again: “Needed something to remember you, and us. It wasn’t always bad between us.”

We all know that; it’s why it’s so hard, watching them hate each other. Seeing Bass obsess over finding Miles, over killing him, that was the hardest part of being trapped in Philadelphia. I wasn’t just trapped with my own demons, I was trapped with his, and theirs. Trapped between them now feels like coming full circle.

I would think Bass had forgotten I’m still here, except he squeezes my hand tighter, leaving an ugly, red imprint of the thin chain on my skin. He swallows hard, and it’s so quiet I can hear the scrape of his fingertips over Miles’ stubble.

“No games this time. Please, tell me, no games.” His voice is so ragged, so raw, it rips into even me a little. I can’t feel sorry for him. I _won’t_. But I know how much his hurt hurts Miles. It’s a vicious cycle, what can I say.

Miles glances down at me, immobilized by the claustrophobic hallway, though I know he wants to flee. “How am I- What do you expect me to say here?” he demands helplessly.

A shaky breath escapes me and I flinch at his dark brown gaze on me. I only have so many seconds, so many heartbeats, to make this final move. To decide where we go from here and how much trauma I can live with.

“No games,” I murmur, my voice steady of its own accord.

“Wha-” I stop Miles with a squeeze of his arm, even as I’m sliding my fingers through Bass’, the dog tags dangling between us.

“No games.”

Bass doesn’t ask if I’m sure, doesn’t give me a second to change my mind. Just leans over me and kisses Miles like he’s any number of life-saving cliches.

 _No games?_ Hell, this might be our penultimate game, pretending this house can hold the three of us.

Miles makes some kind of weak protest but then he’s driving a hand into Bass’ curls and there’s this strangled little noise that escapes him, that nearly rips me open. And yet.

And yet.

It does something to me too. Bass was right. Of course I’ve imagined them, fantasized about them. The reality, of Bass’ tongue peeking out as he swipes it over Miles’, of the way Miles sucks Bass’ bottom lip in between his teeth, just like he does with me… It hits me harder than I could have calculated.

But I can’t ignore Miles’ fierce grip on my waist either, like he’s terrified that as soon as he releases me after this display, I’m going to bolt. I try to silently convey to him that isn’t going to happen, leaning back against his chest. I’m resigned to the fact that I am not going to bolt. Miles will learn that soon enough. And then we’ll start this rapid spiral into whatever twisted _trois_ we’re on the doorstep of.

I curl my fingers in Bass’ shirt, resting my forehead on his chest as he crushes his nose into Miles’ cheek and breaks away for just a moment, long enough to suck in a deep gasp of air.

Miles tears away from him, hand on his shoulder. "How can you be okay with this? _Either_ of you?"

“I’m not okay with it. She’s a hypocritical bitch and I’m never going to trust her,” Bass says conversationally, shrugging a shoulder. He reaches for me and I have to consciously refrain from flinching but he’s only rubbing a tiny smear of blood off my cheek.

“Don’t talk to her like that, all right?” Miles snaps, starting to shove him off but I twist between them, my fists clenching in their shirts.

“Hey, hey! He can think that all he wants. I think he’s insecure and a sociopath and he destroyed my family.” The two of them go quiet at that but I’m not looking for their pity or their guilt. Instead, I push up to kiss Miles, tonguing his bottom lip until he responds, groaning against my mouth and dragging me closer. His kiss is shaky, ( _and he tastes like Bass_ ), but still I can’t deny him.

We part for air and I loosen my grip on his shirt, relaxing back onto my heels. “But he’s a part of you.”

Miles glares at Bass over my head without breaking the kiss. “He doesn’t have to be,” he growls against my mouth.

“Yes he does.” He does; I can’t deny that any longer. I can’t have one without the other, not ever, not really.

“I don’t actually want to share you,” Bass mutters, “But I also don’t want to lose you. Certainly not to her. And here I thought I already had.”

I actually smirk a little to think of Bass pining away in a bar somewhere, drowning in whiskey. But that could just as easily be any of us; my vices are less obvious but they’re no less destructive, after all. I repeat the sentiment in my head: _I can’t have one without the other_.

It’s always been the case. I’ve just been in denial a long twenty years.

Miles is staring at us like we’re his worst torment and the most tempting glass of single malt ever, all at once. He runs a hand through his hair, dark eyes laced with confusion. “I… you got to help me here. I don’t know what to do with this.”

Sliding my hands down his chest, I run my fingertips across the thin band of skin above his pants. “Just make love to me, Miles. Make love to _us_. You’re good at that.” He’s not good at very many things but Miles is wonderfully physical. It’s how he makes up for all the words he withholds, without even realizing.

He flushes, glancing from me up to Bass and back again, but before he can stammer some more, I duck out from between them. Miles looks like he’s going to make a mad grab for me so I lay a hand on his cheek, tracing the shell of his ear with my fingertips. “I’m not leaving,” I reassure him in a whisper. “Just going to go… freshen up.” I do still have blood all over me, not to mention the daily dust of Austin.

He clings to me for a minute and I take the opportunity to breathe in a deep lungful of his rich, whiskey scent before murmuring, “Meet me in the bedroom?”

Miles shudders in anticipation, wetting his lips, even as his eyes dart to Bass’. I turn his hand over, his massive palm dwarfing mine as I slowly dangle the dog tags into it and close his fingers over them. He clenches his fist around it, this precious little scrap of metal he’s carried with him for thousands of miles and thousands of days. I brush past them and by the time the bathroom door closes behind me, I can hear their hushed voices and the poorly contained sound of kissing.

Earlier, I was so… hurt. Not even jealous, I was hurt. But that sound, even though it’s _Bass_ , it’s also Miles happy. And that’s a feeling I can live with. I meet my eyes in the little mirror above the tub, mindlessly grabbing a brush to run through my hair. _This is about making it work with Miles_ , I tell myself. _And maybe finally learning how to breathe the same air as Bass._

When I finally step out of the bathroom, I’m naked under the robe tied neatly at my waist because I imagine this is going to be a confusing enough tangle of bodies to sort out as is. Might as well streamline the process where I can.

The boys are leaning against the bed, casually making out, Bass’ graceful hands in Miles’ hair. It seems presumptuous to call them “ _my_ boys” and yet they turn to look at me seconds later and it takes my breath away a little. Miles is still fully clothed but he’s managed to divest Bass of his shirt. The dog tags have been returned to their old rightful place, hanging around Bass’ neck, and he looks every inch the cocky, young Marine I first met, but for the tinge of gray at his temple.

Miles holds a hand out to me and I let him pull me tight against his side, lips brushing my hair. “Thank you,” he whispers, kissing down to my ear.

I give a contented little sigh, leaning into him as Bass moves my hair off my neck. It’s odd, being here with both of them, but it makes a strange, perfect sort of sense too. My eyes snap open though and I lean back, stopping them both with, “Wait, what about the dead body in my living room?”

“Blanchard’ll want to see him. We’ll put him on ice… later.” Miles’ eyes nearly cross at the thought of everything we could do between now and ‘later’.

Bass smirks, running his hand over Miles’ chest like he’s afraid to stop touching him. “Don’t tell me you’re going to be squeamish about it now,” he directs to me. “ _You_ killed him.”

I press my lips together in a thin line and try not to glare. It’s not difficult to be attracted to Bass, but it is hard to be civil with him. “Fine. _Later_.” Miles slides an arm around my waist and I turn to him with an open-mouthed kiss that makes my knees buckle, the tip of his tongue teasing mine in long, agonizing strokes.

When we finally part, my fingers are twisted in his shirt and I shove at his chest, suddenly needing to dispense entirely with the pre-sex awkwardness. I want them and I don’t want to wait around while we snark and kiss and bitch some more. “Come on, on the bed,” I demand breathlessly, and Miles scrambles back, just his feet dangling off the end.

I lift myself up so I’m straddling his hips, and the feel of him hard under me drives me on, tugging at the buttons on his shirt. I’m rather proud when I only tear off one button in the process, sending it flying to the hardwood floor with a metallic ping. Bass leans against the foot of the bed, slides his hands from my hips to my knees, the slight friction making my skin tingle as Miles sits up enough to strip his shirt off.

He smirks, dark eyes almost smiling, and runs the backs of his fingers up the inside of my thighs, intentionally making me shiver. The two of them, they’re a team in ways I can’t begin to understand, and I feel as though tonight is only going to be another example of that.

“So how we going to do this?” Bass’ voice is a low rumble, his lips brushing my ear.

I slide a hand firmly onto Miles’ chin, arching an eyebrow. “That’s up to you. What do you want, Miles?”

He hates to talk during sex, I know this, (perhaps Bass knows this too), so instead of answering, he just pulls me flat to his chest and rolls us onto our sides. I hitch a leg up over his hip, my robe falling off to the side even as he’s untying it from my waist anyway. This at least is gloriously familiar.

The bed dips as Bass sits on the edge to rid himself of his boots and trousers but he doesn’t then immediately join us. Instead he kneels to unlace Miles’ boots as well, as I draw the zipper down on his pants. He bucks his hips against me, involuntary, I think, but I only knead at him through the cotton, metal zipper teeth digging into my palm and, probably, into his hard, aching cock. Miles silences a whine in the hollow of my throat, sucking at my pulse harder than necessary. There’ll be a mark in the morning; Miles likes to leave marks.

So do we all. It’s life-affirming to see your own handiwork on someone else’s body.

The boots hit the floor with a thunk and then Bass is crawling up the bed towards us, nuzzling my hand and mouthing at Miles’ cock through his pants. I let him shift my leg out of the way, ducking my head to catch Miles’ lips as Bass works his pants off. Perhaps we make a pretty decent team as well. Miles slides his hands under my robe, stroking bare skin with familiar rhythms and callouses so I’m pliant against him. I shrug the robe off my shoulders and Bass rejoins us on the bed, settling in behind Miles like he belongs there.

I don’t know, maybe he does. Is this what they used to do, in Philly, before that? It’s difficult to imagine Miles consistently this docile and… submissive.

Bass meets my eyes over Miles’ shoulder, hooking an arm under his and carding his elegant fingers through the dark hair on Miles’ chest. His eyes crinkle at the corners and he sucks an earlobe between his teeth, mumbling, “You first.”

I arch an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at my lips in spite of myself. “Romantic,” I comment, dry, even as I’m working a hand down around Miles’ cock. He groans against my throat, thoroughly distracted. I feel a little detached from myself, detached from this situation; I’m wet, I want Miles, some part of me even wants Bass, but I’m caught up in my head.

Drawing Miles’ tip between my legs, I let him crush me to him tighter, like he’s desperate for me. It hasn’t been like this in so long. _The other day in the lab was a fluke,_ I tell myself.

(Laying here with Miles half inside me and Bass smirking at me, I realize it wasn’t a fluke at all. Miles was just craving me after getting physical with Bass. Somehow that doesn’t make me feel as used as it probably should; it sort of makes sense that we’re so tangled up in Miles’ head, he can’t tell us apart anymore.)

Miles grabs my hip, angling me so he can push all the way in, and I scrabble at his shoulders, finally yanked out of my head. I let go of a moan I didn’t realize I was holding in, hands trembling. Bass twists his head to nip at my fingertips, curling a hand under my knee and pulling my leg up over his so we’re twisted together, all three of us. When I peek my eyes open, teeth in my lip, Miles is resting his forehead on mine, one of his massive hands cupped at my cheek, and I can’t help the shaky little smile I give him.

“Love- this. You,” he whispers, smoothing his hand down my bare back and up into my loose hair. He shudders suddenly, clinging to me, perfectly still, and I glance over at Bass, curious. I can’t see much but his arm is moving and I flush to think of what he’s doing back there. Whatever it is, Miles seems to be enjoying it, his nose buried in my skin, obscuring his thready, breathless groans.

Bass catches me looking and nearly grins, apparently proud of the sounds he’s eking out of Miles. “Do you have any lube?”

I barely refrain from rolling my eyes. I suppose they _did_ have those luxuries in Philly. They were some of the richest men on the continent, after all. This little house in Texas is slumming it for Generals Matheson and Monroe. “Really, Bass? It’s not like there’s KY in every drugstore or something.”

He shrugs, pressing a kiss to the side of Miles’ throat. “S’fine. Spit’ll work.” Miles grunts his approval into my breast, somehow managing to hold me even a little tighter as Bass spits in his hand and slicks the pink cock I can just barely glimpse over Miles’ hip.

There’s a few minutes of heavy breathing and soft groaning, during which I feel like I’m going to absolutely burst from the pressure of Miles inside me, not moving. Finally, Bass rests his cheek on Miles’ shoulder blade, reaching around him to lace their fingers together on my waist. I press my lips together, eyes nearly watering as I dig my nails into somebody’s arm, not sure who’s.

“Please.” My voice is raspy, needier than I would have liked.

Bass brushes Miles’ hair out of his face with his free hand, not quite ignoring me. “You ready?” It’s… touching? There’s so much here I can’t understand, a tenderness between them I never imagined. Miles nods furiously and I thank every god and myth and insolent sentient science project I can think of that he’s finally going to _move_.

It’s slow, at first, Bass shifting his hips the slightest bit, so infinitesimal it barely counts as thrusting. But Miles is moving inside me and that’s all I care about, the thick twitch of his cock deep and warm and there’s a cramp in my calf that I can’t bring myself to do anything but revel in. The pinch of pain, the almost too-thick stretch of him, the sudden inability to keep my eyes focused, the brush of Bass’ fingers on the sensitive skin behind my knee.

My head is hazy, eyelids falling almost shut, and I could come like this, just full and warm and wrapped up in them. But then Miles is gasping, squeezing my arm, and I know that strangled sound: he’s close, needs me off him. I swallow my groan of protest, wishing I could just let him come inside me for god’s sake, and grab the headboard to pull myself up slightly.

Miles slides out of me, (Christ, that’s disappointing), and buries his head between my breasts, mumbling a string of mournful apologies. He’s coming faster than he usually does with me. I try not to take offense. Instead, I just run my nails across his scalp, lips brushing his temple.

“Don’t. Don’t be sorry,” I murmur, feeling oddly affectionate, though I’ve yet to come.

Bass braces himself on the pillow, hips snapping faster than before, and they come in quick succession of each other, like they were each waiting for the other. My legs are still wrapped high on Miles’ waist when he shudders and slumps against me, sweat slicked along his sides. Rubbing my fingertips over the soft shorn edges of his hair, I meet Bass’ eyes over his shoulder. They’re bright and wet, like he can’t contain what he’s feeling right now, and I reach out almost unconsciously to stroke his cheek.

He swallows hard, throat bobbing as I let his eyelashes fall across my thumb, eyes shuddering beneath his lids. Like he worries a little about having me so close to his retinas, like I might gouge him out given the chance. Like he might sit still and let me.

Miles lifts his head reluctantly and I move my hand to the back of his neck, meeting his lips when he seeks mine out. I’m relaxing into him a little, want pooling heavy in my stomach again as he recovers, when Bass starts to move, gently drawing out of Miles’ body. At first it feels intrusive because Miles has to pause in kissing me, his hands tight on my arms but not really paying any attention to me, so focused is he on the feel of Bass… I squeeze my eyes shut, though I’m not sure whether it’s to block the idea of this level of intimacy between them or to block how much it turns me on.

The bed creaks, quiet, and I peek my eyes open to find Miles twisting around, hand on Bass’ wrist. “Wait. You want this to work? It can’t just be me in the middle.”

 _What does that mean? Bass and I, we need him as a buffer. The one time it was ever just us, we nearly tore each other limb from limb._ Of course, Miles doesn’t know that, doesn’t know about Philly. He’s never asked; I think he’s afraid to.

Bass sighs, no doubt thinking something similar. We’re fooling ourselves if we think this bed can hold all three of us for long.

“You two… you can’t fuck me and play Lava with each other at the same time.”

Miles and his stupid, complicated analogies, always more accurate than I want them to be. It’s exactly how I feel: like if I touch Bass for too long, I’ll come away scarred and burnt, a piece of me forever fused on him. Miles heaves a sigh, wetting his lips and sitting up in bed, the sheets tangled around his ankles as he runs a hand through his hair.

We all stay where we are, glaciers in a queen-size ocean for long, freezing cold minutes. Bass watching me and Miles watching the wall and me, just trying not to watch the way their bodies creep towards one another out of instinct. Bass reaches across the long stretch of white pillows finally and brushes my hair out of my eyes. “You haven’t come yet, have you?” His voice is soft, tired, reluctant.

I shake my head minutely, down rustling under my cheek. He sighs, but for once he doesn’t look to Miles to see which side he’s on or to judge how much we’re expected to play nice. Instead, he shifts onto his back and slides his hand down to mine, tugging me closer.

“Come here,” he murmurs and I can feel Miles’ eyes on us, like he’s holding his breath, waiting for angry sparks to spring up wherever Bass and I touch. I don’t look over at him, though, don’t know if I can do this if Miles’ earnest hard-on distracts me.

I shift up onto my knees, the bed squeaking under our combined weight, and let Bass guide my legs over him. Trying to ignore the strain it puts on my muscles, (we aren’t 25 anymore, after all, and none of us was ever a contortionist), I fold my legs under his shoulders and grab a hold of the headboard with both hands.

Bass draws a deep breath through his nose, pressing his cheek to the inside of my thigh. He stares up over the length of my body stretched above him and I glance away, determined not to look him in the eye. He doesn’t ask if I’m ready, not like with Miles, just coaxes me down, knees spread on either side of him. His lips are soft and dry at first as he spreads me open with his thumbs, and then he’s drawing his tongue up to my clit and back, finding me already wet from Miles, (and from watching them.)

I can’t help the moan that escapes me, traitorous body rippling with pleasure at the touch of a man who should repulse me but never quite has. One hand drops to his hair and I tug on his curls as he sucks my clit into his mouth, sparing me no pressure or friction. My hips buck against his mouth, involuntary I swear, and he gives a garbled gasp for air that’s both jarring and tantalizing. Smothering Bass, I could probably live with that.

I’m drawn out of my vaguely homicidal haze by his voice, stubble scratching my thighs. “You going to come make yourself useful before she breaks my nose?”

Miles is still frozen somewhere off to my left but the offer seems to spur him into motion and a few moments later, he’s at my back, hands on my hips. I lean into him, head dropping back on his shoulder and teeth in my lip, all too happy to relinquish the responsibility of not killing Bass and just revel in the feel of their hands and Bass’ mouth and the building pressure inside me.

“Fuck, you’re pretty,” he whispers in my ear, “Both of you and- _together_ -” Miles sounds so wrecked I want to paste on a teasing smirk and give him a real show but I’m too far gone, Bass’ tongue sliding in and out and around in these half-cocked circles that shouldn’t be nearly as good as they are. He’s got the tip of his thumb inside me, knocking against nowhere in particular but still more than I can handle, and it’s only Miles’ firm grip that keeps me from sliding off entirely.

He reaches around, fingers brushing Bass’ nose and my clit, and that’s it, I’m babbling their names and obscenities and a stuttering _yesyes-yes_ pattern that’s spiraling fast out of control. When I’m through, when I’m officially wrung out beyond all repair, Miles lifts me back across Bass’ legs so he can sit up on his elbows, watching Miles paint my jaw with kisses and caress my too-tender skin with callouses that are sensory overload.

At some point, I’m drifting and Miles, (I think it’s Miles), tucks me into the center of the bed with a pillow and the covers drawn up to my shoulder. There’s a banging in the kitchen that I register vaguely as the icebox opening and closing and the distinctive sound of a dead body thwacking against hardwood, (a sound I probably shouldn’t be quite so quick to recognize.)

I’m too deep asleep to react when they return to bed but I do notice, the weight of each of them and the shifting of covers. The soft sound of a kiss exchanged over my head and then arms sliding around my waist.

Sunlight and Sheila’s rooster crowing, (must be about 7:00), wake me up as much as the odd pressure of two men on either side of me does. Miles is still snoring softly against my shoulder, though he’s usually the first one up, and Bass is watching me with half-lidded eyes that do nothing to contain their vibrant, psychotic blue. We regard each other in shouting silence for long moments before he inches closer, muttering, “This is never gonna work.”

I lay a hand on his bare chest, white sheets stark against his tan, and argue, “It has to. It’s this or we kill each other."

 


End file.
